I’m just devastated. Earlier in the week, in the aftermath of a snowstorm that shut down our community for days, a 13-year-old girl went missing. Police believe she left her house willingly, crawling out her bedroom window in the middle of the night after first pushing her dresser against the door to hinder anyone from interfering with her escape. Police further believe into that cold night she carried with her a blue Minions blanket.

A blue Minions blanket.

Every time I think about what must have happened, I picture the girl scooting out of her window into the cold of the night clutching that blanket for warmth. A blue Minions blanket. Cartoon characters. Think about the innocence of a little girl who would carry that blanket. It almost breaks my heart.

There’s more to the story.

The girl recently received a liver transplant. She required medications to prevent her body from rejecting her new liver. Two pills in the morning, one at night. Without her medications, her body would start shutting down after a couple of days. On Friday, her father told a local news reporter that, “At this point, I know she’s sick. She’s hurting. She’s probably already into convulsions. Her liver is shutting down as we speak.”

Earlier today, an 18-year-old Virginia Tech freshman track and cross country runner was arrested and charged with the girl’s abduction. We’ve seen enough predator situations in the past to know something like this was possible, but it still boggles the mind. News reports indicated the girl participated in Facebook “teen dating” forums, and I could imagine how she and her alleged abductor met online, him a star college athlete and she a vulnerable Middle School student hungry for affection and attention. She wouldn’t have known he was a predator. I imagine she must have thought she was running off with some dreamboat, a charming gallant who would treat her with gentle respect and declare, Lancelot-like, his undying love. She probably thought she’d be back home in a matter of hours; otherwise, she would have taken her medications with her.

Last year, one of my sons went to the same school as this girl. When a tragedy like this happens to a child in your community, and you've got children of your own who you're trying desperately to nurture into a healthy, happy adulthood, you just feel so lost and helpless. Like, if something like this could happen to another child (who I'm sure was loved as deeply by her parents as I love my children), surely something equally as tragic could happen to my own children.

IT TAKES A VILLAGE. Hillary Clinton gave that title to her 1996 book-length meditation children and families . At the time, the title was controversial. Conservatives and would-be conspiracy nuts raised a ruckus, claiming the title signaled Hillary's intentions to somehow nationalize childcare. Or that it was somehow dismissive of a parent's role in a child's life. Bob Dole (remember him?) famously said, “With all due respect, I am here to tell you, it does not take a village to raise a child. It takes a family to raise a child.”

Back then, not having children myself, I had a romanticized view of parenthood. A super-duper self-sacrificing parent, ever-vigilant, ever-wise, was all any child needed, I thought.

I was wrong.

As soon as my first child—Stephen—was born in 1999, I realized many people outside our immediate family had the ability to shape and form his life. The obstetrician who delivered him at birth. The nurses. Our sweet neighbors who cooed at him when we took him out on stroller rides. Pre-school teachers. Baby sitters. Grandparents. Uncles. Aunts. The doctors who would later diagnose him as being on the autistic spectrum. A veritable village of therapists, school aides, classmates, educators, and school administrators who would come to get to know him.

A month after Stephen was born, my wife and I took him to RFK Stadium, where we held DC United season tickets. After DC United scored the soccer game’s opening goal, I jumped up in the air, holding Stephen. Thousands of other people were in the stadium, all of them screaming, high-fiving each other, raucously celebrating the goal. Any one of them could have done something stupid—fallen over their seats by accident and knocked him down, or accidently spilled a beer on him in their celebration.

My wife, sitting next to me in the stadium, was furious. She said I ought to be more careful with Stephen.

“Why?” I asked.

She looked at the people around us. “Anyone here could just grab him out of your hands when you’re holding him like that.”

At the time, I thought she was crazy. Crazy in an over-protective loving-mother kind of way. But she was right. I was so trusting of those around us, not thinking it possible anyone would do something so crazy, so deliberately evil. We are all like this. Trusting. Each day, venturing out of our houses, we trust the strangers we meet will be rational if not caring individuals. We trust our fellow motorists to control their vehicles; we trust pharmacists to fill our prescriptions with the right medications; we trust random strangers will not pick-pocket us when we’re in grocery store check-out lines; we trust our fellow classmates and movie-goers will not reach into their backpacks for an assault rifle while we’re engrossed in a college lecture or summer blockbuster; we trust the village.

One psychopath/sociopath/criminal degenerate can undo in a few hours everything that can possibly matter to you and your child.

A parent, of course, can do many positive things for a child. My last blog post said as much. A parent can feed the child, teach the child, provide positive re-enforcement when the child is feeling down on him- or herself.

A parent can provide a blue Minions fleece blanket for the child to treasure.

However, regardless how vigilant that parent might be, he or she cannot always prevent someone else from the Village from snatching that blue Minions fleece blanket. Or worse.

Arsenal fans to the core, my son Sebastian and I caught the first half of the 2014 FA Cup Final from a hotel room. Arsenal was widely expected to demolish their opponents, Hull City, but eight minutes into the game, they were already down 2-0. Moments later, they nearly conceded a third goal. Arsenal looked wretched, wobbly on defense and unconvincing on the attack.

It was, coincidentally, Sebastian’s thirteenth birthday, and we were in North Carolina, where his Roanoke Star SW U-13 club was playing in a soccer tournament. After Arsenal scored a goal on a fantastic Santi Cazorla free kick, we had to go to Sebastian’s next tournament game. His team was playing well, winning games by comfortable margins. This was Sebastian’s first season playing travel soccer. He had been invited onto the team after excelling as a rec league goalkeeper for several years but it soon became obvious to all, coaches and Sebastian included, that he wasn’t going to be able to unseat the team’s starting goalkeeper. The life of a second-string goalkeeper can be frustrating. In order to get game time, Sebastian tried to develop as a defensive midfielder but he needed to improve big-time on his ball skills. And his pace. And his stamina. His coach would put him in for a couple of minutes here and there, but his shifts rarely inspired confidence.

Later that night, after his team won another game, Sebastian and I returned to the hotel room and watched a sketchy Russian-language download of the rest of the FA Cup final. Though Arsène Wenger, Arsenal’s legendary manager, had been with the club since 1996 and had steered them to several major championships, speculation was rife he would be sacked should Arsenal lose. Throughout the game, even after Arsenal scored a second goal to tie it up, Wenger displayed the grim countenance of one whose stomach acids burbled ferociously. Eventually, thanks to an inspired Olivier Giroud back heel pass to set up an Aaron Ramsey shot, Arsenal scored the winning goal in extra time. Wenger would later label this the “most emotional” of all his championships; by all rights, the club could have folded after falling behind by two goals so early into the game, yet they hung on, showing tremendous calm and patience.

Later that night, while Sebastian slept, exhausted by the two games he played, I surfed through all the articles I could find about the FA Cup Final. Somewhere along the way, I stumbled upon an interview with Mikel Arteta, Arsenal’s de facto defensive midfielder. Sports fans often imagine a losing coach’s halftime talks to be fiery foul-mouthed rants challenging players’ manhood, yet Arteta singled-out Wenger’s halftime address for its nurturing message. AccordingArteta, Wenger told his players that he was proud of them. He told them that he believed in them, and if they believed in themselves, they could overcome the halftime deficit.

Wenger’s halftime speech was a piece of psychological brilliance.

“He told us to stay calm. We had done the most difficult thing, which was to score the first one [after going two down] so now the game was open, we had plenty of time to do it, we could not rush it,” Arteta said. “It was brilliant, I think the lads continued to play and we showed a lot of experience and composure.”

The next morning, on Sunday, Sebastian’s team fell behind very early in a game against, frankly, inferior opposition. For a while, his team looked likely to get an equalizer at any moment, but as the game wore on, their opponents fell into a well-organized defensive shell. In youth soccer at his level, it’s very rare for a player to remain on the bench for an entire game, yet that was exactly what happened to Sebastian. His team pressed and pressed, sacrificing defense for offense. Tactically, it made sense for them to play without a deep-lying defensive midfielder (Sebastian’s position), especially since their opponents were content to merely clear the ball out of their own half every time they got a boot to it.

Sebastian’s team lost, 1-0. It might have been the only time that season his team failed to score a goal.

After the game, Sebastian’s coach bluntly told him that he didn’t play because he wanted to only use players who could “influence the game.” Driving back to the hotel, Sebastian was totally devastated, his eyes red and puffy and nearly sobbing. He berated himself for not having more talent, berated himself for every poor touch he had on the ball throughout the season. Normally a happy go-lucky kid, he was utterly despondent.

It was one of the crisis moments when I really felt, as a father, that my words could make or break the course of his life, one of the few times that I felt called upon to utter words of brilliance. Which is a good thing, because brilliance and me aren’t really compatible.

Luckily, immediately I thought what Mikel Arteta said about Wenger’s halftime talk. I told Sebastian how proud I was of him for practicing hard throughout the season. I pointed to the incremental progress he had made in improving his ball skills, his positioning, his passing. Although the end product might not yet be there, he was improving. Rather than dwell on the liabilities he brought onto the field or the ways he still needed to improve, I talked about what he was doing right. Since Christmas, he was working out at the gym on the days his team wasn’t practicing to build up his strength and stamina. He worked out regularly with me, too, working on his shooting and dribbling skills. Quite possibly, all together, he was working out more than anyone on his team. I told him how proud I was of his past achievements, both on the field and off. He was growing up to be a fine young man, and I was so proud to say he was my son.

Because of how the tournament brackets were set up, Sebastian’s team played in the championship game despite their loss. I should have been excited for him, and for his team, but I dreaded what would happen with Sebastian if the coach elected not to play him again.

Amazingly, and perhaps employing some psychological brilliance of his own, Sebastian’s coach put him in the starting XI for perhaps the only time that season. And it ended up being more than just a token appearance for Sebastian. He played well, and with confidence, and there was nothing about his game that afternoon that screamed liability!!! By the time he was taken off for a breather, his team was up 2-0. Later, in the second half, I think he assisted on a goal. He could justly take pride for helping his team win.

That was two years ago. From time to time, I wonder what would have happened had I responded differently when Sebastian was down on himself. I could have said, Dude, you just gotta work harder! Or stuffed his head with empty plaudits. Or perhaps suggested maybe he should wake up and realize he was never going to be Mesut Ozil or Aaron Ramsey or any of the Arsenal stars we watch every week. But what he needed was confidence, something any father should be able to provide their child.

Errata #1: Sebastian has kept up with soccer. He now plays primarily as a winger. Last weekend, he dribbled through and around three players to score in a 6-2 defeat. I’m proud of him. I’d be proud of him even if he never touched the ball again.

Errata #2: Earlier in the week, Entropy published a cooking-related memoir-ish piece of mine called “Chicken in a Pot.” It contains a really good recipe for the title dish, which I originally found in Cooks Illustrated. Give it a look if you’re hungry for something to read. Or if you’re just plain hungry for rustic chicken dish.

Errata #3: Also, yesterday the latest issue of Passages North arrived in the mail. Which really excited me because it contains a short story of mine called “Chimpanzees.” It's one of my more bizarre stories (first line: "The chimpanzees aren't chimpanzees but sock puppets we stain brown with shoe polish and accessorize with googly eyes") but, in a weird way, it's probably one of the most personal stories I've ever written, one that comes close to expressing a lot of things I've been feeling over the last few years.

​I really owe a huge debt of gratitude to the many editors—including Timston Johnston, Robin McCarthy, and Matt Weinkam—who went above and beyond the call of duty to help me make this a better story. Thank you!

Errata #4: Last night, around ten o'clock, my kids and I walked around our quiet neighborhood. Dusted with snow, the streets seemed almost luminescent. Not a car was out, not even a mouse. And the only sound we heard on our quiet little walk was when, a few blocks away, a grumpy old man burst from his house to cuss out his dog for wanting to come inside from the cold. ‪#‎creepy

The first Bowie song I ever knowingly responded to was “Beauty and the Beast,” an album track off HEROES that, upon its release, was briefly on medium rotation on an album rock station I listened to while growing up. I would have been in middle school at the time. The song, with its distorted electonica and dangerous propulsive beat, was unlike anything I’d heard. Until then, I’d been nurtured on a diet of Beatles albums and—gag—Captain and Tennille.

In my adolescent reading of the song, “Beauty and the Beast” was about chaos and civic unrest:

Something’s in the wayThere’s slaughter in the airProtest in the windSomeone else incited*Someone could get skinnedPow

There’s a disjointed lyrical sense throughout the whole song, as if the singer’s thoughts were refracted through a prism. He’s experiencing the ominous present moment of “weaving down a byroad.” Danger lurks in every lyrical crevice—“Someone fetch a priest”—and yet the singer seems to be struggling with his moral compass.

“I wanted to be good/I wanted no distractions/Like every good boy should.”

Back then, in my early teens, this was exactly what I was feeling, and yet I had this conclusive sense that by merely stating this wish for goodness, I was in fact admitting that the quest for goodness could never be entirely successful. Within the song’s menacing musical background, evil lurks, infecting everything and everyone within its soundscape. The singer sings, “Nothing will corrupt us,” but it’s more of a wish than a promise. Beauty lies within the beast of this song. And a beast lies within the song’s beauty. Both are alluring, tugging at our attention, and like the song says, “you can’t say no” to either.

I grew up in a chaotic household. My father would disappear for days only to re-emerge as a drunken howling figure at three in the morning, berating me for not being stronger, smarter, more industrious. Apparently, in his eyes, I was doomed for failure. And then, still reeking of alcohol, he’d demand that I’d hug him and he would weep maniacally, saying he was sorry he wasn’t a better father.

He, too, my father, couldn’t say no to the Beauty and the Beast.

I wanted so bad to believe there was beauty, and goodness, within the chaos of my household.

*Only now, decades later, as I’m double-checking these lyrics online, do I realize I’ve been misinterpreting them for all these years. According to several online resources, this line is really “Someone else inside me.” All this time, I imagined them being, “Someone else incited.” As in, incited a riot. But now I’m realizing my mistake.